


Back Off He Is Mine

by Mary_Jane221B



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-26
Updated: 2016-03-26
Packaged: 2018-05-29 07:46:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6365374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mary_Jane221B/pseuds/Mary_Jane221B
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Why did Twitter have to create that Gif button?</p>
<p>For Darling A because our random conversation created this monstrosity and you should share the blame.</p>
<p>Smooches!</p>
<p>MJ x</p>
<p>p.s. This has only been betad by me.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Back Off He Is Mine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [beginningwithA](https://archiveofourown.org/users/beginningwithA/gifts).



> Why did Twitter have to create that Gif button?
> 
> For Darling A because our random conversation created this monstrosity and you should share the blame.
> 
> Smooches!
> 
> MJ x
> 
> p.s. This has only been betad by me.

John does not mean to say it. Does not mean to threaten Greg but there is something in the way the newly single Detective Inspector is watching Sherlock play a game of pool against Sally that has John’s blood boiling. He is after all a man and Sherlock is his. Everybody knows that. Well perhaps everyone but Sherlock.

Greg laughs, his breath sweet with the smell of rich merlot, and sways as he half falls off his bar stool.

 “What are you talking about John?” Greg hiccups “He’s Sherlock fucking Holmes he belongs to no man!” Greg flings his head back to roar with laughter but John’s a bit drunk; inebriated by the constant flow of lager and whiskey the Met’s summer party has provided him with this evening and he takes a swipe at Greg and manages to get a handful of rough cotton so he can pull the man forward and get in his face.

“You listen to me Gregory Lestrade. That bloke is mine. His body is mine. His brain is mine. His heart is mine and if you wanna fucking fight me for him I will beat your arse, copper or not, I was in the bloody army you enormous cock. I was a fucking captain dick head” John says.

John pushes Greg off him and the man goes stumbling back knocking over the nearest stool and stumbling into a young constable Dimmock had been trying to get off with. The general ruckus caused by spilled drinks, Dimmock’s chances of copping a feel going up in smoke and Greg’s rather colourful language draw the attention of the rest of the bar. John feeling the quick change from aggression to guilt that only a heavy dose of alcohol can bring about was quick to scoop Greg up off the floor and try to soak the spilled wine up off the constable’s shirt with numerous flimsy paper napkins.

He feels the cool hand on the back of his neck and the soft baritone of Sherlock’s voice in his ear before he registers the other man’s imposing presence.

“You should really be thanking John.” Sherlock says to Dimmock over the top of John’s head “I doubt your mother would be very impressed to find a local strumpet tottering out of her house at 3 am when this young lady inevitably realises what a mistake she’s made in accompanying you home.” 

John manages to get Sherlock out of the way when the female officer throws a punch. The Constable’s fist connects solidly with John’s left cheek however and sends him crashing to the floor at Sherlock’s feet.

Sherlock’s face swims in front of John’s, his vision blurred by the alcohol and the force of the young woman’s fist. Strong punch good girl John thinks. She would have made a decent solider if she had been so inclined. Sherlock’s speaking to him but over the din of the constable’s tempers being soothed and Dimmock swooning over a strong feisty woman John can’t hear him.

He makes some token noises of protest when Sherlock starts manhandling him up against the bar and John manages to get himself into a slumped sitting position where Sherlock can kneel over him and try to perform checks for concussion while John giggles at the way Sherlock’s curls bounce when he pulls on them lightly.

He thinks it is highly likely he will throw up all over Sherlock’s wonderfully tight ivy green shirt if the man continued his attempts to drag him to his feet. Something about the jolting movements and the flush of arousal coursing through John’s system with Sherlock pressing up against him in the manner he was mad John’s stomach feel akin to a washing machine on spin cycle.

He opens his mouth the tell Sherlock this, to advise him to abandon John in favour of Lestrade who is tall and distinguished in every way John is short and podgy.

Instead of any of that he says

“Fuck me you smell good.”  John claps a hand over his mouth while Sherlock looks up in shock.

“What did you say John?” Sherlock asks and John just about manages to shake his head in response.

Sherlock considers him for a few moments before swearing quietly and clicking his fingers imperiously at Greg and another police officer that John cannot for the life of him name and demands they help him get John into a cab so Sherlock could save him from any further humiliation.

*****

They make it home in one piece which is no small miracle considering John’s state of inebriation and Sherlock’s refusal to sit next to him in the cab. He instead chooses to sit across from John with his elbows resting on his knees as he engages John in one of their impromptu staring contests that John was starting to consider more moments of intense sexual tension where he restrains himself from pouncing on the quaffed man he cannot stop dreaming about.   

Sherlock hushes him the moment the cab pulls away from the curb and they spend the twenty minute journey in silence and staring, which John would normally find irritating but tonight he finds highly enjoyable as he is drunk enough to indulge his impulse to stare lovingly into Sherlock’s eyes without the normal accompaniment of his brain’s constant panicked reminder that Sherlock may reject him at any moment and that his infatuation was leaving himself open to possible mockery. 

Sherlock tilts his head at John’s expression as they pull on to Baker Street and John sighs because he may be drunk but he’s no fool and he is not about to fall all over Sherlock in a cab, or in their living room for that matter, not when he has never received any indication his efforts would be welcome.

It is with a heavy head and a heavier heart that John shuffles the few steps up to the front door of 221b Baker Street and he considers knocking and waking Mrs Hudson for all of thirty seconds, before dismissing the idea as bad manners, because the idea of having to rummage through his pockets to find his keys’ seems like far too much effort. He instead chooses to rest his forehead against the cool rain damp painted wood and wait for Sherlock who he can hear paying the taxi driver behind him to walk up and reach around John to unlock and push open the door.  

Sure enough John hears the slap of expensive leather shoes on rain soaked paving slabs and closes his eyes to await the press of Sherlock’s body against his. Sherlock will mean it to be impersonal but John will bask in the forty five seconds of that moment of close contact. The press doesn’t come. Nothing does. The footsteps stop and John can feel Sherlock standing behind him, can hear him breathing, but the man doesn’t say or do anything to get them through the door and out of the London drizzle.

“Sherlock,” John whimpers because he doesn’t have the energy to face the questions right now. An edge of the booze is wearing off and he’s starting to feel the first flushes of embarrassment at his behaviour this evening. Not to mention his cheek hurts. His cheek fucking throbs in fact. But Sherlock doesn’t answer. John feels him move closer and then stop again. He hears the man’s breathing turn into something ragged and he feels a hand stroke through the short hair at the back of his neck where the skin is exposed to the elements and small drops of dew like rain have been caught on the silvery blonde strands.

Sherlock steps up and pulls John into and embrace. He fits his front snugly to John’s back and nuzzles into his neck. John feels his lips part and a small moan escape him. He tilts his neck and let’s Sherlock trace the short line of it with his closed lips.

“Are you drunk Sherlock?” John asks quietly and Sherlock merely chuckles. It seems pertinent as they’re standing on their doorstep in the middle of the evening while Sherlock presses a very firm and prominent erection into the top of John’s arse and lower back.

Sherlock chuckles turn into murmurs which in turn change to breathy moans which intermingle in the cool night air with John’s own. Sherlock continues his ministrations, adding a thrust every time he completes a circuit of his makeshift path between John’s shoulder and jaw line.

“Sherlock?” John moans as he can feels his own erection rub against the cotton of his boxers every time Sherlock rocks against him and pushes him forward onto his toes.  John slaps a palm against the wood of the door making the knocker shake and starts to push back against Sherlock.

From across the street a person wolf whistles and then there is quiet laughter and a momentary jeer before Sherlock throws an insult at the teenagers and John hears them beat a rapid retreat. But John feels himself tense up under the cover of Sherlock’s frame and coat anyway, feels the first trickles of cold and the adrenaline crash make his body tremble.  He also feels his erection flag and doesn’t know whether he should be annoyed or relieved.

“Inside” Sherlock growls and slips a hand holding the golden key for the door past John and into the lock but the moment is already broken and John knows it.

It’s not that John’s lust for Sherlock has faltered but his desperation has lessened and suddenly doubts are flooding him. He stumbles as Sherlock impatiently shoves at him to cross the threshold which he does.  He freezes on the other side of the door while Sherlock frees first himself and then wrestles John of their coats.

 John watches from his position by the front door as Sherlock flicks them out to ensure any excess water falls away and hangs them from their respective hooks. He watches how the man smoothes the front of his shirt and takes a deep breath before turning back to face John.

John sharpens his eyes when he sees Sherlock’s expression change from one of panic to something predatory. Something fake and very un-Sherlock because Sherlock may have the grace and ferocity of a tiger in the field, on a case, when they’re pounding the streets of London, but here in their home where there should be no need for adrenaline or masks Sherlock has donned one and John, having realised, knows this cannot continue. Not tonight. Not when there is alcohol playing a role.

When Sherlock comes at him John holds him at arm’s length and fixes him with his most Captain Watson stare. “No” John says it calmly but firmly.

 He tries to make it as clear as possible that Sherlock won’t move him on this because John thinks there is a chance he might try. He’s relieved when Sherlock doesn’t, he’s almost relieved when Sherlock freezes but when he sees the panic make another appearance he pulls the man into a fierce embrace.

They stand like that with John encircling Sherlock with his arms and refusing to let go for a long time. Long enough for Sherlock’s posture to change from one of defensive rigidity to accepting softness, long enough in effect for Sherlock to give in and wrap his arms around John too.

“Come to bed with me?” John asks and Sherlock nods timidly. Now that the mask has dropped Sherlock looks exhausted.

They don’t speak. John leads Sherlock upstairs and pauses at the top of the stairs to incline his head toward Sherlock’s bedroom door. Sherlock smiles in response and so they make their way down the corridor still holding hands.

They undress each other in silence, John taking the time to pepper Sherlock’s shoulders with kisses, taking the time to drop to his knees and kiss the small pink scar left behind from the bullet that had pierced his abdomen. Sherlock gasps and his cock twitches in interest from within its silken confines but John just smiles up at him and doesn’t touch.

Sherlock calls him a tease and John chuckles in response when Sherlock starts pressing the plastic buttons through their corresponding eyes on his checked shirt. He feels a flare of anxiety when Sherlock uncovers his scar and closes his eyes when the man leans forward to kiss it.

They go to bed still dressed in their underwear and still holding hands. John’s last thought before he drops into sleep is he hopes Sherlock doesn’t regret this in the morning.


End file.
